Page 5 of Assassin Anonymous
“How is your eighth step coming?” he asks.
I take a sip of my coffee-flavored water and shrug. “It’s almost Christmas. Are we exchanging gifts? Because if you got me something, I don’t want to be empty-handed and feel like a dumbass.”
“Mark?”
“I’m a medium T-shirt. I have plenty of kitchen stuff. I don’t need more kitchen stuff.”
“Maaark?” Kenji says, drawing my name out in a low baritone, like he’s lecturing a small child.
“It’s coming,” I tell him.
Kenji chuckles as he leans back on his stool, looking around to make sure no one is in earshot. Besides an old man sitting in a booth at the far end of the diner, disappearing into a moldy brown suit as he does the New York Times crossword, it’s just us and the owner, Lulu. Her diner is a narrow little railroad-style joint, full of chrome, faux wood, and dust. The food is fine, but the privacy is top-shelf.
“What’s wrong?” he asks. “You’re distracted.”
I tell him about Smiley. About how I should be proud that I de-escalated the situation, even though I wanted to pound on his skull until shards of bone sliced into my knuckles.
“If you’re looking for affirmation, here it is.” Kenji pats me on the shoulder. “I’m proud of you.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“I know I keep saying it, but that’s because it’s easy to forget,” Kenji says. “Choosing to change is not something you do once. It’s something you have to wake up every day and choose to do again…”
Kenji stops when Lulu appears in front of us. Her red hair is going white, steely green eyes shining through crimson cat-eye glasses. She hefts a glass carafe of coffee and tops us both off without offering any kind of acknowledgment before shuffling back to the register, where she busies herself with paperwork.
“It’s not easy,” Kenji says, his voice a little lower now. With his right hand, he strokes the intricate, colorful tattoo that dominates his left forearm—the tail of a dragon, the body of which wraps around Kenji’s torso. The dragon’s head takes up the entirety of his back. He tends to touch the tattoo when he’s remembering his previous life.
“The idea of actually sitting down with people…” I take a tentative sip of coffee, hoping the hot liquid will loosen up the thickening in my throat.
“Remember what I told you, all those years ago?” Kenji asks, spinning his mug on its plate.
“Willingness,” I tell him.
“I did an amends two nights ago,” he says. “I tracked down an old girlfriend who is living here, in Passaic.” He puts down the mug and folds his hand. “She runs a restaurant. Japanese-Mexican fusion. Whatever that is.”
“She didn’t comp you a meal?”
“I went at closing,” he says.
“And you just told her what you did?”
Kenji nods. “She seemed upset at first, a little scared, but she heard me out. When I was done, she said she didn’t forgive me, but it had been so long she no longer held a grudge. She told me she set down that pain a long time ago, and it was now mine to carry. She asked me to leave and never come back.”
“How did that feel?” I ask.
“In the moment, uncomfortable,” he says. “But I felt lighter on the walk back to the train. It had to be done.” He takes a long swig of coffee. “The more you do it, the easier it gets.”
I laugh a little at that. The idea of any of this being easy sounds ridiculous.
The thing is, I’m lying to Kenji. My eighth step—the list of people I should make amends to—has been done for a while now.
But the ninth step is actually making those amends.
And moving on to that means admitting these things to be true.
“Here’s the thing I don’t get,” I tell him. “The ninth step says we have to make direct amends wherever possible, unless to do so would cause further harm or injury. If that’s the case, we can do a living amends. Just, you know, live a better life. One of service. Why isn’t this whole program about living amends? How does it not cause further harm or injury to drop this kind of stuff in people’s laps? We’re just ripping off scabs. Putting them in a position of…What if they want payback?”
Kenji, with that smile again. “Spoken like every single person who doesn’t want to start their ninth step.”